Only a complete stupid fucking idiot would drive to a fucking mental institution in the middle of the night, see abandoned tactical vehicles outside, and think Wow! This is a great idea! I should absolutely sneak in and record shit to take down my corporate nemesis! Nothing could possibly go wrong!

Like I said: Complete stupid fucking idiot. The kind of complete stupid fucking idiot who’ll follow a mental patient dressed as a priest around in hopes that the fucker will keep his word and let me out. I got in way too deep. Way, way too deep. I rolled the dice like I always do, and I rolled a goddamn one. Crit-failed.

Whether I escape or die here, I am free. Honestly? Leaning more towards ‘die’ right now. I might be an idiot, as evidenced, but I’m not an idiot. But I have to keep going. I’m beat all to hell with a broken-ass leg and two less fingers than I started the night with, plus literal and metaphorical blood on my hands, but if there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a quitter. I started this, I am damn well going to finish it, one way or the other.

The doors open up in front of me, and - great! It’s a fuckload of Merks! With Wernicke! That asshole!

I barely have time to get my hands up before the first bullet hits.

Time slows. Static crackles in my ears. And then the rest empty their magazines into me like it’s the end of Scarface.

What’s stuck on a stupid loop in my head is Curiosity killed the cat, curiosity killed the cat, curiosity killed the cat... What a shitty final thought.

Yep. I was right. ‘Die’ it is.

Only...I don’t.

I fall down, my vision dims, everything hurts and I’m dying, but I hear Wernicke saying something. “Gott in Himmel. You have become the host.”

And then comes the running and screaming.

I’m me, but I’m not me. I killed Billy, but not like I’m killing these Merks now, ripping and tearing and turning them into chunky marinara from the inside out. They can’t escape me. It’s not like I like it; I’m totally dispassionate. They hurt me. Time to hurt them back.

I don’t kill Wernicke. He gets to live down here, alone until he dies. Ancient Nazi fuck.

And then I’m me again, stumbling to my feet again, glaring at the Nazi in the wheelchair, who shrinks back, looking terrified. Good.

I could use the elevator. I break it instead. Fuck Wernicke. I don’t need it. Not when I can go up the shaft without it. I know how, somehow. I fly.

I’m trying not to think about what Wernicke said, even though I know damn well what he meant. The host. The Walrider. I’m the monster now, the thing in the dark. I should hate it, but I’m alive because of it. I can control the thing. I am the thing. I can leave, if I want. Finally, the sun is rising and I can leave.

But first...there’s a guy in a suit. He just stabbed someone with a camcorder - like me - who’s trying to get out, and I know - I know - the suit’s from Murkoff. I can hear him talking.

“Fucking die already!”

Yeah, nah. Not gonna let that stand. I think he’s due for a little ride on the Walrider express.

I swoop in, pick him up, bat him around thirty feet in the air like a cat playing with a mouse. And then, instead of dropping him like Billy’s Walrider did to me...I turn him into a Quentin Tarantino movie. Kill Bill vol. 3. I almost want to laugh, because yeah, I did kill Bill half an hour ago, and that’s why I am what I am now.

The guy who got stabbed hobbles out. I watch him go, following him from a distance. I want to make sure this guy gets out all right. Even if my shit doesn’t get out, his should.

He gets into my Jeep - Motherfucker! Stealing a guy’s car! - but he can’t start it. I roll my eyes, or whatever I’ve got instead. Has this guy never seen a stickshift in his life? I’m gonna give him a little push.

I raise my arms and shove a cloud of nanites at him, and they burst upon the Jeep like a wave, pushing it back through the gates. He’s gonna have some whiplash, but at least he’s out of here.

I can feel myself in a humanoid form, but I’m still surrounded by nanites. I will myself back to fully human, and I wince in anticipation of the bullet wounds reappearing.

I crack an eye open. Nothing. I look down and pat at my chest with my left hand. I’m fully human again, no nanites, and one hundred percent bullet-free. Still missing those fingers, though, and my leg is still fucked. Oh, well. I’ll take what I can get.

There’s a familiar weight in my right hand, too, and I heft it. My camcorder. I suppress a hysterical giggle. How the fuck...?! Doesn’t matter if I turned it into nanites and reconstituted it, as long as my footage is still there. I take an experimental peek. It is. Thank fucking Christ. If all this had been for nothing, I’d have killed myself.

I grin broadly and hobble out through the courtyard towards my Jeep, the other half of the aphorism echoing around my head.

And satisfaction brought him back. And satisfaction brought him back. And satisfaction brought him back.